Atonement

by Winter Austin

  “How do you know he was loaded?”

  The foyer connected to a bathroom tucked behind and under the staircase. Like many of the Victorian farm houses in the region, it had originally been a part of the kitchen, creating an uninterrupted circle from room to room on the first floor.

  Con glanced at her, then headed up the staircase. “I called the bank and got his financials.”

  “What the … Already? You got a girlfriend in the bank or something?”

  “Or something.” He topped the stairs. The wooden boards creaked under his weight. Sweet saints, he really loved the sounds old houses made.

  Four doors, each one kitty-corner to the next, lined the hallway. Rivers shouldered past him and planted herself in front of the master bedroom door. Hooking her thumbs behind her duty belt, with the fingers of her right hand resting against the butt of her holstered gun, she assumed a posture that was supposed to appear relaxed and was anything but.

  “How do you want to proceed, Detective?”

  “You take the master bedroom and this one next to it. I’ll check the other two. You got gloves?”

  She dug inside the breast pocket of her uniform and pulled out a pair of blue gloves, waving them.

  Bloody hell, she was a sarcastic one. Con tugged on his gloves and entered the first of the two rooms he wanted to search. Seth Moore had used this room as a storage area. A thick layer of dust covered most of the cardboard boxes and plastic tubs, a good indication this wasn’t a frequently visited room. Con backed out, closing the door behind him, and headed for the other room.

  Bingo. The home office.

  Down the hall, drawers banged shut. He peeked around the corner, glimpsing Rivers as she moved around the master bedroom. If there was a suicide note, it’d be here in the office. But there was no use in calling her out of her search. She might find it.

  Con flipped open the laptop, and the computer pulled itself out of sleep mode. Instead of the desktop popping up, the first thing to appear was a document with a letter. Looked like Moore had left a note.

  “Deputy Rivers,” Con hollered, “I found it.”

  Squinting at the words, he skimmed the beginning. Same-old, same-old blather about being sorry and wishing he hadn’t done what he did. Con scrolled down until he hit the confessional. He rocked back on his heels. “My, my, we were a naughty boy.”

  “Who was a naughty boy?” Rivers sidled up next to him and peered at the screen. “Did he explain why he did it?”

  The subtle hint of cinnamon drifted from her as she bent to read the letter. Con tensed at the proximity of her body to his, and then he inched to the side. After her attempt to seduce him last night, he couldn’t get rid of the thoughts of what could have happened had he not pushed her away. And it was making being around her damn difficult.

  “Explained and more,” he said. “Read down further.”

  She scrolled to the end of the letter, then jerked back. “He had to atone for his sin of adultery?” She looked at Con. “What the hell? Whose wife was he banging?”

  “Didn’t say. Looks like we need to start talking to people who knew him.”

  “I’d say.” She closed the laptop and turned to scan the room. “Atone? Who uses that word?”

  “Priests and religious nuts.” Con headed for the door. “You want to finish looking through here for anything that could indicate who he was running around with? I’ll search the first floor.”

  “Sure.” She nodded absentmindedly and picked up a stack of files sitting on the desk.

  Con grinned and left. Back in the man cave, he shuffled through the contents of the room. A few minutes into his search Rivers stomped downstairs, cradling the laptop.

  “Nothing up there, and the victim used password protection to lock up the rest of the computer. Sheriff said our new guy, Jennings, can go through it for anything else.”

  Con hesitated. “The newbie is a computer geek?”

  “Actually, the sheriff calls me his techie,” Jennings said as he entered the house through the front entrance. “I’ll take that, Deputy Rivers.”

  “Deputy Jennings, what if the Eider police has someone to do that?”

  The young man tilted his head and studied Con. “Sorry, Detective, do you guys have someone in the department that can hack codes?”

  Con noticed the smile Rivers was trying to hide behind her arm as she scratched her forehead.

  “Not really. We usually send it to DCI, and they take care of it.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I take a crack at it first?” Jennings remarked.

  “Guess not. Saves us all a ton of time if you can do it.”

  With a nod, Deputy Jennings departed with the laptop tucked under his arm.

  Snickering, Rivers wandered past Con. “I think I’m going to like that kid.”

  “I think your sheriff likes to hire smart-asses.”

  She twirled a finger in a “whoop-de-do” manner, then opened the dining room hutch doors and checked through the cabinets. As she reached for a top cabinet, she hesitated as if a stab of pain hit her. Slowly, her fingers grasped the handle, and she pulled.

  Con gritted his teeth and put his back to her. He’d warned Shane not to call her in for this case, but it was difficult to explain why without raising Shane’s suspicions. If he found out Nic dove into a bottle last night, things would get sticky—for both of them, because Con failed to report it.

  “What do we have here?”

  Abandoning his search through all of the electronics, Con joined Rivers in the dining room. She slid something out from under a rack of plates. Pinching it between her gloved fingers, she held up a ragged corner of what looked like a label. “Do you have an evidence bag?”

  Con removed a plastic bag from his pocket and opened it for her. “What are you thinking?”

  “It looks like the corner of a prescription label. I’ll see if our boy out there had any issues with depression or such.”

  “If he was doing someone, why would he be depressed?” He sealed the bag.

  “Maybe the sneaking around got to him. If she is married, maybe she didn’t want to leave her husband.” Rivers shrugged. “People do stupid things for stupid reasons.”

  Like getting drunk while holding a loaded firearm. He scowled. When Con had first met her, she seemed put together with a good head on her shoulders. But no one knew where she came from or about her past. Shane kept everything he knew about her close to the vest. All anyone was allowed to know was that she was a marine, the first female sniper, and she didn’t have any place she could call her hometown.

  “It might be nothing.” She took the bag from him. “But it’s worth looking into.” Rivers shoved the bag into her jacket pocket and continued her cabinet search.

  “Don’t trust me to help you?”

  Slowly, she faced him, her eyes narrowed. “This is helping me, O’Hanlon.” She jutted her chin at the man cave. “Go see if our boy left any more clues as to why he’d off himself.”

  “That’s cold. He had people who cared about him.”

  Red blotches flushed across her cheeks. “Cared? Then where are the pictures of these supposed people who cared about him?”

  “Maybe he left them in storage.”

  With a sniff, she resumed her search. “So go find these people. Bet they’d like to hear how this man they cared about put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

  Heat crawled along his shoulder blades. Where had the cruelness come from?

  She paused and looked over her shoulder. “You going?”

  “I’m gone.” He stalked to the staircase.

  Why had he bothered to stop her last night? And why didn’t he report her? He took the steps two at a time and stomped onto the landing. Closing his eyes, he sighed. He knew why.

  He broke the department rules and his personal rules because he couldn’t stand to see her implode.

  Chapter Five

  Nic held up the evidence bag to the incandescent bulb d
angling from the department ceiling. The ragged edge of the paper glowed. It certainly looked like a prescription label. She lowered the bag and laid it over the large desk calendar.

  The front door squealed open. Hamilton tromped inside with Deputy Jennings hot on his heels. Removing his beige Stetson, Hamilton used it to point down the hall. Jennings skipped around the sheriff and hightailed it into the office.

  Nic grasped her desk phone and pulled it closer, her gaze landed on Hamilton.

  His eyes narrowed. Grim lines dragged at the corners of his mouth. “Got anything on that scrap of paper, Rivers?”

  “Not yet. Calling the doc now.”

  He crossed the floor, his boots thudding against the aged wood. Each step echoed in her head like mortar rounds. Hamilton tapped a thick finger against her desktop. “Stop by my place when you knock off.”

  Sliding her fingers behind her ponytail, she nodded. “Sure.”

  “Sheriff,” Jennings called.

  With a departing tap, Hamilton headed to his office.

  Nic released her breath and punched in the local doctor’s number. Blowing air, she placed the phone against her ear.

  “Dr. Drummond’s. This is Laura.”

  “Hey, Laura, it’s Deputy Rivers. Is the doc free to answers some quick questions?”

  “It looks like he’s in his office right now. Let me check.”

  Nic rotated the evidence baggie while she waited. The clap of a door snagged her attention.

  Hitching his service belt back onto his lean hips, Doug Walker clomped to his desk, which sat perpendicular to hers, and flopped into his chair. His icy gaze flicked her way and held for a moment until he scowled. He scooted his chair under his desk and clacked away at his computer.

  Walker had been a deputy for ten years. He didn’t like her from the day she joined the department, winging pointed comments at her any chance he could when Hamilton wasn’t around. Now his dislike had turned to seething hatred. Dusty Walker, the wife-killer Nic had taken down yesterday, was his cousin.

  Nic was fairly certain Walker was one of the many anonymous callers spewing hate and damnation to her soul for killing Dusty Walker. She’d received the messages on her private work line starting last night and rolling into today. She was lucky she’d never given out her cell number to anyone except Hamilton and O’Hanlon, and she didn’t have a landline at the house. But the hate mail would soon start pouring in. It was the downside of living in a close-knit community.

  Angling her chair so she didn’t have to look at Walker, Nic continued to wait for the doctor.

  She heard someone picking up a phone on the other end and then, “Deputy Rivers, how can I help you?”

  “Dr. Drummond, thanks for taking my call. I need to talk to you about Seth Moore.”

  Dr. Jasper Drummond was also the county coroner. At least the good citizens of McIntire had been logical in voting in a man who actually knew something about death.

  “Yes, tragic.”

  “I was wondering if he had any history of depression or drug problems that he’d come to you for help with.”

  “Honestly, there was nothing. The last time he was in my office was for a sliced finger. Had to stitch it up.”

  Nic grabbed a pad of paper and pen. “When was that?”

  Drummond sighed. “It was three months ago. And I prescribed over-the-counter drugs for that.”

  As she scribbled, a chill rode a wave down her neck. She glanced over and found Doug glowering at her. Glaring back at him, she scooted around in her chair to face the wall. “He seemed okay otherwise? Nothing that triggered any warnings for you?”

  “Nope, none, but he was my patient only for a short time. Let me pull his chart and see who his previous doctor was and call you back.”

  “That would be great, Doc.” Nic ended the call and jotted down the info.

  She picked up the bag and peered inside. If Seth Moore didn’t have any prescriptions, maybe this was the housekeeper’s? That made less sense. Why would she have her medications with her at a job? Didn’t O’Hanlon say the woman had a panic attack? Nic set the evidence on her desk. If the housekeeper suffered attacks on a regular basis, she’d need anti-anxiety meds.

  When Dr. Drummond called back, Nic would ask him.

  “What gives you the right to be back here after killing Dusty?”

  Nic rotated her chair. Walker sat stiff as a nail in his seat, right hand resting on his thigh, close to his sidearm. The moron didn’t have a clue who he was facing down, he being the only one in this building not privy to her service record as a marine.

  “Let’s not forget your cousin murdered his wife in front of his kids.” Nic felt particularly nasty at the moment, so she leaned forward. “Sprayed her brains all over those frightened children.”

  Walker’s features blanched. His hand slid away from his gun. The sheriff had barred Walker from viewing any part of the case, so he couldn’t know what Nic had seen through her scope. Until now.

  “You’re a real bitch, Rivers,” he hissed.

  She relaxed against the back of her chair. “That’s what they all say.”

  He shut down his computer, then set his chair rolling, leaving the seat. With his department ball cap settled on his dark hair, Walker stomped to the door and shoved his way outside.

  Nic watched him leave, her satisfaction in jabbing a verbal knife into his back turning into bitter regret. Deep in her guts a quiver started. Swallowing, she closed her eyes and cradled her head. It was getting the better of her again. This disease spread its claws through her soul. She shuddered and lifted her head.

  For three years, she’d beat it off. Managed to bury the ugliness that had taken over her. The scope was supposed to keep the veil there for her. Somehow, in the course of the years, it had lost its power. She’d joined the victim at the other end of her barrel.

  A pink stain on the wall.

  • • •

  Her boot braced on the bottom rung, arms crossed on the top, Nic settled her chin on her hands and watched her boss in the center of the pen. A blue roan trotted around him, its movements like fluid. Dust puffed around the horse’s hooves. Nic could appreciate the horse’s beauty in motion and well-proportioned body. The roan made a great Western stock horse, but it wasn’t a mount that Nic—personally—would find herself riding.

  Hamilton glanced over his shoulder, nodded, and returned his focus to the horse.

  Nic leaned against the wood panels. No sense letting her boss see that yesterday’s shooting, last night’s binge, and today’s events had ill effects on her. Hamilton took care of his deputies, but he tolerated little.

  He smooched, and his horse increased the pace to a lope. The blue roan’s muscles flexed and smoothed as it circled the pen. Nic picked up the tang of sweat as the horse swept past her.

  The sheriff had asked her out here, and he’d yet to bring up his reasons. Nic’s suspicions were getting the better of her. Did he know? Had O’Hanlon told?

  Out of uniform and wearing filthy Wranglers and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Shane Hamilton appeared too young to be a four-term sheriff. The voters of McIntire County liked the former two-time champion bareback and bronc rider. He had a way with horses, and people.

  The blue roan ceased its circle around Hamilton and strolled toward the center of the ring. Hamilton stroked the horse’s neck, gave it a pat, and then he exited the round pen. “With me, Rivers.”

  She met him at the gate and fell in step as he walked to his barn. Tension rolled off him. Nic clicked her teeth together. He knew.

  “How long we known each other, Nic?” He shoved the barn door aside; the rollers creaked.

  The use of her first name unsettled her. Oh, God, he was going to suspend her from the job. “Three years.”

  He stepped into the darkened interior. “In that time, did I ever steer you wrong?”

  Her hand shot out, snagging his shirt sleeve, and she dragged him to a stop. “Sir, I don’t beat around the
bush. Whaddya want?”

  Flicking back the brim of his Stetson, his brown eyes bored holes in her. “What did I tell you yesterday before you talked to the attorney?”

  “No regrets.”

  “No regrets,” he said with her. Hamilton sighed. “Rivers, what the hell happened last night?”

  Heat flashed into her face. “O’Hanlon told you?”

  “O’Hanlon knows, too?”

  Ramming her hands in the back of her Wranglers, Nic blocked out Hamilton’s stare. “Shit.”

  “Start talking.”

  Her gaze darted from the round pen with the blue roan to her Jeep parked in the drive. She slid a hand over her hair, catching it on the ponytail. “How do you know something happened last night?”

  He shook his head, the hint of humor twitching on his lips. “Your reaction. Hell, you’re an easy read.” He bumped a hip into a door. The heady scent of horse, manure, and the sweetness of hay buffeted her face. “Can’t believe Con O’Hanlon is privy to whatever you did.”

  “Me either,” she muttered.

  While Hamilton picked up stray items lying around his barn and gathered feed for the stalled horses, Nic leaned a shoulder into the door frame and watched him.

  “I took a risk hiring you for this job. The mayor and town council were against me bringing you on. Feared you were damaged goods after coming home from the war. I said no.”

  The muscles in her shoulders coiled tautly. Somehow the town council had figured out what she hoped no one except her family knew.

  “Rivers, do I need to be worried?”

  She pushed upright. “No, sir.” Craning her neck, she shifted to loosen her shoulders. “We all have rough days. Right?”

  Hamilton’s gaze narrowed on her. “For some, it’s tougher.”

  A chill lanced her veins. How far would he push to get the truth? “Look, I called O’Hanlon because it was a bit awkward calling my boss about a shooting that might get him in trouble.”

  The suspicion left his craggy features. Sighing, Hamilton headed outside. “If that’s your story.”

  Story or not, that’s all he was getting. Her ponytail whipped in the wind. She looked at the sky and grimaced. “I need to get home before that storm hits.”